HELLVELLYN. And call the brave To sleep without a shroud. See, the east grows wan- To the wrath of man. The legend heard him say: Ere closed that bloody day. His comrades tell the tale And dawn is glimmering pale. In the spring of 1805, a young gentleman of talents, and of a most amiable disposition, perished by losing his way on the mountain Hellvellyn. His remains were not discovered till three months afterwards, when they were found guarded by a faithful terrier bitch, his constant attendant during frequent solitary rambles through the wilds of Cumberland and Westmoreland. I CLIMB'd the dark brow of the mighty Hellvellyn, and wide; ing, bending, had died. FAREWELL TO THE MUSE. Dark green was the spot 'mid the brown mountain ENCHANTRESS, farewell, who so oft has decoy'd me, heather, At the close of the evening, through woodlands to Where the pilgrim of nature lay stretch'd in roam, decay, Where the forester, lated, with wonder espied me Like the corpse of an outcast abandoned to weather, Explore the wild scenes he was quitting for home. Till the mountain winds wasted the tenantless Farewell, and take with thee thy numbers wild, clay. speaking Nor yet quite deserted, though lonely extended, The language alternate of rapture and wo: For, faithful in death, his mute favourite attended, 0! none but some lover, whose heart-strings are The much-loved remains of her master defended, breaking, And chased the hill fox and the raven away. The pang that I feel at our parting can know. How long didst thou think that his silence was Each joy thou couldst double, and when there camc slumber? sorrow, When the wind waved his garment, how ost Or fale disappointment, to darken my way, didst thou start? What voice was like thine, that could sing of to- How many long days and long weeks didst thou morrow, number, Till forgot in the strain was the grief of to-day! Ere he faded before thee, the friend of thy heart? But when friends drop around us in life's weary And, O! was it meet that, no requiem read o'er waning, him, The grief, queen of numbers, thou canst not as- No mother to weep, and no friend to deplore him, suage ; And thou, little guardian, alone stretch'd before Nor the gradual estrangement of those yet remain- him, ing, Unhonour'd the pilgrim from life should depart? The languor of pain, and the chillness of age. When a prince to the fate of the peasant has 'Twas thou that once taught me, in accents bewail- yielded, ing, The tapestry waves dark round the dim-lighted To sing how a warrior lay stretch'd on the plain, hall; And a maiden hung o'er him with aid unavailing, With 'scutcheons of silver the coffin is shielded, And held to his lips the cold goblet in vain ; And pages stand mute by the canopied pall: As vain those enchantments, ( queen of wild Through the courts, at deep midnight, the torches numbers, are gleaming; To a bard when the reign of his fancy is o'er, In the proudly-arch'd chapel the banners are beamAnd the quick pulse of feeling in apathy slumbers. ing; Farewell then! Enchantress! I meet thee no Far adown the lone aisle sacred music is streaming, more, Lamenting a chief of the people should fall. 730 But meeter for thee, gentle lover of nature, Welcome, from sweeping o'er sea and through To lay down thy. head like the meek mountain channel, lamb: Hardships and danger despising for fame, When, wilderd, he drops from some cliff huge in Furnishing story for glory's bright andal, stature, Welcome, my wanderer, to Jeanie and hame! And draws his last sob by the side of his dam. And more stately thy couch by this desert lake Enough, now thy story in annals of glory, lying, Has humbled the pride of France, Holland, and Thy obsequies sung by the gray plover flying, Spain ; With one faithful friend but to witness thy dying, No more shalt thou grieve me, no more shalt thou leave me, In the arms of Hellvellyn and Catchedicam. I never will part with my Willie again. HUNTING SONG. WANDERING WILLIE. All joy was bereft me the day that you left me, And climbid the tall vessel to sail yon wide sea; O weary betide it! I wander'd beside it, And bann'd it for parting my Willie and me. WAREN, lords and ladies gay, Far o'er the wave hast thou follow'd thy fortune, Oft fought the squadrops of France and of Spain; Ae kiss of welcome's worth twenty at parting, Now I hae gotten my Willie again. When the sky it was mirk, and the winds they were wailing, I sat on the beach wi’ the tear in my e'e, And thought o' the bark where my Willie was sailing, And wish'd that the tempest could a'blaw on me. Waken, lords and ladies gay, Now that thy gallant ship rides at her mooring, Now that my wanderer's in safety at hame, faem. When the lights they did blaze, and the guns they did rattle, And blithe was each heart for the great victory, In secret I wept for the dangers of battle, And thy glory itself was scarce comfort to me. But now shalt thou tell, while I eagerly listen, Of each bold adventure, and every brave scar, And, trust me, I'll smile though my e'en they may glisten; For sweet after danger's the tale of the war. Louder, lourier chant the lay, And O! how we doubt when there's distance 'tween lovers, When there's naething to speak to the heart thro' the e'e; How often the kindest and warmest prove rovers, And the love of the faithfullest ebbs like the sea. THE BARD'S INCANTATION. WRITTEN UNDER THE THREAT OF INVASION, IN THE AUTUMN OF 1804. Till, at times, could I help it? I pined and I pon der'd, If love could change notes like the bird on the treeNow I'll ne'er ask if thine eyes may hae wander'd, Enough, thy leal heart has been constant to me. The forest of Glenmore is drear, It is all of black pine and the dark oak tree; And the midnight wind to the mountain deer Is whistling the forest lullaby : “ When targets clash'd, and bugles rung, ROMANCE OF DUNOIS. The moon looks through the drifting storm, That mingles with the groaning oak- And the lake-waves dashing against the rock; There is a voice within the wood, The voice of the bard in fitful mood; His song was louder than the blast, As the bard of Glenmore through the forest past. “ Wake ye from your sleep of death, Minstrels and bards of other days ! And the midnight meteors dimly blaze: FROM THE FRENCH. 1 The original of this little romance makes part of a manuscript collection of French songs, probably compiled by some young officer, which was found on the field of Waterloo, so much stained with clay and blood, as sufficiently to indicate what had been the fate of its late owner. The song is popular in France, and is rather a good specimen of the stvle of composition to which it belongs. The translation is strictly literal. It was Dunois, the young and brave, Was bound for Palestine, But first he made his orison Before Saint Mary's shrine : “And grant, immortal queen of heaven,” Was still the soldier's prayer, “ That I may prove the bravest kõight, And love the fairest fair." “ Souls of the mighty, wake and say, To what high strain your harps were strung, When Lochlin plough'd her billowy way, And on your shores her Norsemen Alung? Upon the midnight breeze sail by ; Mimic the harp's wild harmony ! By every deed in song enrollid, For Albion's weal in battle bold ;- His oath of honour on the shrine He graved it with his sword, The banner of his lord ; His war-cry fill'd the air, “ Be honour'd aye the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair." They owed the conquest to his arm, And then his liege lord said, “ The heart that has for honour beat, By bliss must be repaid ;-- Shall be a wedded pair, She fairest of the fair.” “ By all their swords, by all their scars, By all their names, a mighty spell ! By all their wounds, by all their wars, Arise, the mighty strain to tell ! Fiercer than fierce Hengist's strain, More impious than the heathen Dane, More grasping than all-grasping Rome, Gaul's ravening legions hither come !"The wind is hush'd, and still the lake Strange murmurs fill my tingling ears, Bristles my hair, my sinews quake, At the dread voice of other years And then they bound the holy knot Before Saint Mary's shrine, If hearts and hands combine : That were in chapel there, Cried, “ Honour'd be the bravest knight, Beloved the fairest fair !" The forest of Glenmore is haunted by a spirit called Lbamdearg, or Red-hand. † Where the Norwegian invader of Scotland received two bloody defeats. # The Galgacus of Tacitus. THE TROUBADOUR. GLOWING with love, on fire for fame, A Troubadour that hated sorrow, Beneath his lady's window came, And thus he sung his last good morrow : 1 “My arm it is my country's right, “Come, from Newbattle's* ancient spires, My heart is in my truelove's bower; Bauld Lothian, with your knights and squires, Gayly for love and fame to fight And match the mettie of your sires, Befits the gallant Troubadour.” Carle, now the king's come ! And while he march'd with helm on head " You're welcome hame, my Montague ! And harp in hand, the descant rung, Bring in your hand the young. Buccleugh ;As faithful to his favourite maid, I'm missing some that I may rue, The minstrel burden still he sung: Carle, now the king's come! “My arm it is my country's right, My heart is in my lady's bower; “ Come, Haddington, the kind and gay, Resolved for love and fame to fight, You've graced my causeway mony a day; I come, a gallant Troubadour.” I'll weep the cause if you should stay, E'en when the battle-roar was deep, Carle, now the king's come ! With dauntless heart he hew'd his way “ Come, premier duket and carry doun, 'Mid splintering lance and falchion-sweep, Frae yonder craigs his ancient croun; And still was heard his warrior-lay : It's had a lang sleep and a soun'“My life it is my country's right, But, Carle, now the king's come! “Come, Athole, from the hill and wood, Becomes the valiant Troubadour." Bring down your clansmen, like a cloud, Come, Morton, show the Douglas blood, - Carle, now the king's come! “ Come, Tweeddale, true as sword to sheath; Expiring sung th' exulting stave : Come, Hopetoun, feard on fields of death; “My life it is my country's right, Come, Clerk, and give your bugle breath; Carle, now the king's come! “Come, Wemyss, who modest merit aids; Carle, now the king's come! “ Come, stately Niddriel auld and true, BEING NEW WORDS TO AN AULD SPRING. Girt with the sword that Minden knew; The news has flown frae mouth to mouth; We have ower few such lairds as youThe north for ance has bang'd the south; Carle, now the king's come ! The de'il a Scotsman's die of drouth, “ King Arthur's grown a common crier, He's heard in Fife and far Cantire, - . Fie, lads, behold my crest of fire !' Carle, now the king's come ! Carle, now the king's come ! Between Tantallon and the Bass! Calton,** get on your keeking-glass, And Ireland had a joyfu' cast; Carle, now the king's come !" The carline stopp'd ; and sure I am, For very glee had ta'en a dwam, But Oman help'd her to a dram.Thought never to have seen the day ; Cogie, now the king's come ! Cogie, now the king's come! Cogie, now the king's come! l'se be four and ye's be toom, The carline's voice is grown sae shrill, Cogie, now the king's come! Ye'll hear her at the Canon Mill, Carle, now the king's come! * Seat of the Marquis of Lothian. + Uncle to the Duke of Buccleugh. “Up, bairns," she cries, “ baith great and sma', * Hamilton. The castle. And busk ye for the weapon shaw! || Wauchope of Niddrie, a noble-looking old man, and Stand by me and we'll bang them a'! a fine specimen of an ancient baron. Carle, now the king's come! 91 There is to be a bonfire on the top of Arthur's seat. ** The Castle-hill commands the finest view of the * Composed on the occasion of the royal visit to Scot- Frith of Forth, and will be covered with thousands, ansland, in August, 1822. iously looking for the royal squadron. 39 THE END. |